Irrefutably Human
by ThePrettiestPoison
Summary: Castiel struggles with being more human than angel. Dean is pretty sure, the way he's acting, he's going to die a teenage girl. Sam is just awkward all over the place. And Dean is not a cat person. MAJOR DESTIEL SLASH. You've been warned. R&R?
1. Chapter 1

**Author's note: So…I have no idea when this would be taking place. I know that's the worst answer ever. Obviously it's sometime after Castiel lost his Grace. Partial fluff, partial angst, Destiel Slash, Hurt!Dean, Worried!Sammy, Human-like!Cas! (I love when Cas starts to act more human.) I do love me some Destiel.**

**This is my first Fan Fiction, please be gentle.**

**I do not own Supernatural, nor any of its respective characters here featured…(Dean, Sam, Castiel, and a bit of Bobby as well for good measure)—Oh the things I would do if I did…They belong to Eric Kirpke. The brilliant bastard.**

**Without further ado…**

**Irrefutably Human**

**A Supernatural Fan Fiction by Brooke Benson**

Chapter 1: The Effects of Late Night Sitcoms on the Angelic Psyche

In theory, Sam realized that his brother was as hardheaded as they came and understood this. Having had to deal with his brother on a daily basis, he knew Dean's faults better then he knew his own, perhaps out of sheer recognition for these faults, which his brother chose to ignore and regard as nonexistent. So naturally, in theory, the concept of his brother ignoring his connection (burning deeper than mere camaraderie) with the angel Castiel—his angel, Castiel—should neither have shocked nor frustrated him as much as it did. However, nights spent scrolling through webpage after webpage and attempting to ignore the palpable sexual tension between the two as they continued their oh-so-annoying eye sexing were getting rather old. Affirmative action, he decided, was the only way to go. However as it stood he had no concept of how to go about hooking up his stubborn, whorish, and generally difficult brother with a pure, borderline ignorant angel of the Lord, the loss of his Grace notwithstanding.

In reality, Dean had become well aware of the situation at hand. He wasn't sure at what point he had decided he was in love with Castiel—he doubted he had decided at all. He had, for the longest time, been sure of his sexuality and attraction to the female gender and only the female gender. In fact, he wasn't sure that although Castiel was definitely male, whether or not he could regard himself as 'gay'. It wasn't for reasons as shallow as homophobia, but it seemed to Dean that the mundane term 'man' for Castiel was the same sort of understatement one would use 'dog' to describe a hellhound. Dean had never found himself interested in any other 'male', and so it was with a grain of salt he regarded himself in terms of the word 'gay'. Even so, using the term in his own mind was a completely separate thing for admitting it out loud. He knew that Castiel was very likely blissfully unaware of the hunter's current situation. If he was aware, he was certainly very talented at hiding it, or else recognizing it for what it was. Either case, for that grain of angelic innocence Dean was grateful. He was thus free to explore the reaches of his own affections in his own mind, sorting through a sea of conflicting but nonetheless connected emotions. Bothering anyone else with them was beyond him, currently. He wasn't entirely sure what he was to make of the entire situation. It wasn't something as mundane as the soft curve of Castiel's upper lip, or the shockingly blue hue of his eyes that drew Dean to him. These indisputably beautiful features were a complimentary afterthought to Dean. It was Castiel's soul to which he was drawn, and the pure elegant grace of it all. Castiel's need to understand, the sacrifices he'd made, and the commitment he held not just to Dean but to anyone he held dear…all complimented perfectly by the fact that with the loss of his Grace he was becoming distinctively more human. It wasn't as though he was changing, only growing. Therein lay a spark of hope for Dean—a secret wish he dare not dwell on longer than for a few fleeting moments—that one day, perhaps Castiel would reach the point of humanity in which he would find himself not only capable of love (as Dean so thought he was) but open to it. He knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that if he could reach that point, there would be no afterthought to them. They would just be. He needn't worry about Castiel's coping with the same confusing realization he had—Castiel often voiced to him that love had no generic types such as 'gay', 'straight', 'lesbian', or 'bisexual'. Love, to Castiel and to the rest of the angels, was just that. Love; indefinable by any human given label. Mostly, Dean realized, it was the way Castiel looked at him. His eyes were quietly searching, though for what Dean was unaware and morbidly curious. His eyes were painfully expressive—always pensive and intrigued. Dean couldn't help but adore and loathe the spark that resided in the long stares the two shared. The connection there was intoxicating to the point of irrationality.

Now the subject of Castiel's most intense look of curiosity was gazing back up at him—eyes just as round and curious looking. The kitten let out a soft meow, as though attaching a question mark to the end. Slightly startled at the response, Castiel tilted his head a bit more and scrutinized the little thing with much more focus, as though fearing some oncoming retaliation or outburst.

"It's not going to burst into song, Cas," Dean droned from the bed he was sprawled so indignantly upon. Castiel shifted his gaze to Dean. "And I told you not to look at me like that unless you were going to screw me."

There was a very long silence in which Dean mulled over the stupidity of his phrasing, Sam shifted uncomfortably and debated between making a comment and running screaming from the room for the brain bleach, and Castiel pondered the implications behind that.

"You know what I mean. Not like that. I didn't mean…Christ," Dean sighed, blushing bright red in a most uncharacteristic way that convinced Sam it would be best not to comment.

"Where'd you find it, anyways?" Sam asked, fishing the carton of milk from the depths of the grocery bag he'd been carrying. Dean stared at it as though it were some strange, foreign substance. He tended to do that around even somewhat healthy food. And because Sam could find nothing in their supplies or the cupboards more useful, he flipped over the ash tray on the nightstand, tipped out the contents (collected dust but nothing more), and poured as much milk into it as he could, setting it down on the table beside the kitten. Castiel watched it drink in silence.

"I was about to take a bus ride…" Cas's usual mask of nonchalance shifted to one of distain. 'They're noisy, and they reek of misery and human excrement' he'd explained once. "And it was sitting in a box on the curb alone. The man suggested that I take it home with me. It would die otherwise."

"Who said to take it home?" Dean frowned.

"Does it matter? What's that look for, Dean? I don't think it's something intrinsically evil. It's a kitten," Sam rolled his eyes at the borderline distrustful look Dean was giving it.

"Yeah, okay. I'm getting the Holy water anyways," Dean growled and dug through the duffel bag for the bottle, setting it beside him on the bed. Just in case.

"Is it not customary to name an animal companion?" Castiel asked.

Sam hesitated in answering. "A pet? Yes…"

"We're naming it now? Jeez…" Dean rolled over and buried his face in the pillow. He knew it wasn't likely now that they would be getting rid of it any time soon.

"Chandler," Castiel stated after an elongated pause.

"Chandler?" Sam burst into a fit of hysteric giggles. Castiel nodded. "Dean has you watching late night TV, doesn't he?"

"Could've been worse. He could have said Doctor Sexy," Dean replied, smirking a little at the idea. Castiel smiled too, for once understanding the reference. He remembered many a night walking in on Dean watching the infective soap before he flipped the channel with a manly grunt of feigned dismissal. It hadn't been long before he'd admitted defeat and confessed his guilty infatuation with the cleverly-named show. Castiel reached over to pet the cat, which half rolled half flopped submissively onto its side, grabbing his index finger between his paws.

"It scratches," Castiel observed.

"Freakin' cats," Dean muttered, with much the same tone as though he were regarding some dangerous disease.

"What is your issue, Dean?" Sam demanded, a little incredulous. "It's a kitten." So saying, he reached for the little cat. Castiel offered it to him willingly, and the positively tiny cat traded hands, remaining in an awkwardly splayed out sort of position, as though reaching for a monstrous bear hug. Sam strode across the cramped hotel room and set the kitten down on Dean's chest. The two stared at each other for a long moment before the kitten let out a surprisingly loud 'meow' and padded towards the hunter's face.

"That's cute, guys, really," he groaned and sat up. Chandler slid halfway down his torso before latching his tiny claws into Dean's shirt, skidding to a halt. Dean removed the claws from his shirt and reached for his father's journal, flipping through the pages. "But we were here for a reason."

"Wendingo. Right," Sam sighed. Chandler meowed in agreement, which sent Sam into a fit of near hysterics and coaxed a grin from Castiel.


	2. Chapter 2

**So many hits! I didn't expect this. I'm much more used to posting my pieces and having them appreciated in anonymity. (Read: I'm not used to knowing that people are actually reading/enjoying this...) It makes me very excited. Thank you all! c:**

**Less action in this chapter, slowing down to plot out their hunt and the usual amount of back-and-forth interjections between the brothers and Castiel. Not as much Destiel here, save some jealousy.**

Dean sat packing the duffle bag full of their necessities. A few handmade torches, bombs made out of their stock of kitchen supplies that didn't qualify as exactly military grade, and Dean's oh-so-adored flare gun, which he had used once before to effectively take down a Wendingo.

"How do we know it's going to come after us?" Sam asked, remembering all too well the lengths they'd gone to have to track down the thing themselves—creeping through abandoned toxic salt mines after the thing. He couldn't imagine doing that again, especially not after having temporarily lost Dean the first time.

"Because. The Wendingo is on this property right?" Dean indicated to a map, jabbing a finger at a particularly large, bare expanse of green nothing. "No trespassers and all that. So far that's been the only hunting ground for the thing. No one has come back because there's been a good supply coming in that don't need to go out. Mostly stoner kids, looking for someplace to hang. There's supposed to be a farm out there or something."

"So where's it keeping the kids?"

"Area like this? Probably a tornado shelter? Nice and dark, underground, abandoned…Basically, if we want to get there, we're going act like rowdy teenagers."

"We're going to try to get ourselves kidnapped?" Sam asked.

"Dean, Wendingos are known for their almost human intuition. It's what makes them such effective hunters. It will smell a trap a mile away," Castiel answered. "It will know you're armed."

"That's why I'm not going to be armed, Sammy is," Dean smirked. "We're not going to try to get ourselves kidnapped. I am."

And because Dean was always one hundred percent okay with disregarding his personal safety for the sake of the hunt, and because Sam wasn't as okay with that concept, he threw one of the empty water bottles from the end table at his head.

"No," Sam snapped.

"Hear me out. We know where it's going don't we? If you cut it off while I'm out and about getting myself caught, you let the people go, smoke the damn thing when it gets there with me, and we all get out alive."

"And what if it doesn't need anything more? What if it already has enough people in…stock," Sam grimaced noticeably at the word.

"It won't have. The one in Blackwater Ridge had at least half a dozen hanging around," Dean wasn't sure whether or not that pun was funny. He paused, remembering the feeling of the ropes against his wrist as he hung from the dark ceiling of that abandoned mine.

"I got it. So not funny, dude," Sam sighed, and he had to agree.

"How may attacks have occurred thus far?" Castiel asked.

"Five. Counting this one."

"This one? We're not doing this, Dean, no. You can be a self-sacrificing asshole some other time," Sam threw Castiel a half a glance. Some other time here meaning when they had more insurance. With the loss of his Grace came the loss of Castiel's ability to heal most any wound inflicted which would have, once upon a time, given this plan something of a backbone. But as it stood, Sam was nowhere close to okay with the concept of offering his brother up as bait.

"So what other plan do we have, Sam? The thing found us the last time, and that didn't exactly go great either," Dean argued.

"I agree with Sam," Castiel said. "It seems unnecessary for you to risk yourself."

"This isn't up for debate," Dean snapped, zipping the duffle bag shut with a snap of his wrist.

"Dean, fine but…wait. Okay? If we're going to do this, we're going to do this right," Sam sighed, defeated. Castiel shot him an absolutely venomous look. _Traitor_, it said. Sam avoided his gaze. "We need something more effective than a box of matches."

Dean smiled at the insinuations. Homemade bombs, while requiring the brains of his geek brother, were among his favorite routes to take when dealing with rowdy supernatural creatures. 'Simple pleasures for a simple mind', Sam had said. Which had earned him an overzealous amount of physical retaliation and a lengthened torrent of profanities from his brother.

"I'll get the supplies," he offered, his mood now distinctly more cheerful as he grabbed the keys off of the counter beside the TV and made for the door.

"Should I tell him that you and I are the only ones with the explosives, or do we let him figure it out after he's helped us?" Sam asked Castiel, who didn't answer.

"I think I will accompany Dean," Castiel answered, and at the look Sam gave him blushed. "He could require help."

"I do not understand…" Castiel tilted his head, staring at the makeshift torch Dean handed him. Sam had gone off to find Chandler a box to reside in while they were out, after a heated debate on the practicality of keeping the cat here versus dumping it on the doorstep of some other poor, sympathetic souls. Dean insisted he knew for a fact the family in 304 had two daughters—he'd seen them check in. Sam had to admit that it wasn't the least benevolent idea Dean probably had, which made him a little proud of his brother's almost uncharacteristic display of tact and humanity. At the suggestion, Castiel had given a faintly Sam-esque look of dejection, and Dean's will had crumpled.

"If you're coming with us, I'm not going to be able to cover your feathery ass and Sam's at the same time. The Wendingo—"

"Is not impervious to fire, I understand that much," Castiel sounded almost defensive. Dean cocked an eyebrow, amused at the spark of emotion. Castiel blinked, and then the mask was back: a carefully crafted and maintained façade of nonchalance. Dean frowned at the backwards shift, much preferring the human Castiel. It seemed more of his angel than anything else, Grace or not. Castiel was still his, and Castiel's growth from obedient working class angel to charming human had always been the resemblance of hope for their relationship. The angel Castiel, who had originally raised him from perdition, would not have dared to strike up such a bond with Dean. But Castiel, Dean knew, was capable of decision making. Dean had decided that if it was possible for him to fall in love, then Castiel should have no more problems with it, assuming he learned . "I do not understand your need to 'cover me'."

"Because it's what he does. His second favorite hobby," Sam sighed, climbing into the passenger's side of the Impala and shutting the door behind him.

"Oh yeah, smart ass? Tell me what my favorite hobby is then. Since you know me so well," Dean tacked on the last bit mockingly, sarcasm and doubt dripping from every syllable.

"Her name usually starts with an exotic attempt at originality. And they're never real," Sam answered sharply. Dean's lips mashed into a hard line as he pulled backwards out of the motel parking lot. He couldn't bring himself to glance into the rearview mirror and meet the impending pair of bright blue eyes, now imprinted with an alarming amount of jealousy.


	3. Chapter 3

**So this chapter is approximately twice as long as anything else I've written. Why? Because it has been too long since I've updated. Why? Because it is a struggle for me. Brooklynne fails with computers...yay!**

**Aside from that, due to personal issues, a lot has been going on so its hindered me from computer use beyond my iTouch. Which, believe it or not, does not work to upload chapters.**

**This one has more action, and a surprising lack of fluff, although a lot more interaction between Sam and Castiel.**

**Reviews are welcome. I get a lot of hits, but not a lot of reviews. We're all lazy, I know. I'm the same way. Read a story...think of commentary and critique...don't want to write it down.**

**Please do? I'm new at this. Thanks for all the story alerts and such, though, in any case!**

**I'm rambling. Enjoy!**

Chapter 2: Gravity Hates Angels, and That's Why They Fall

Sam and Castiel were sitting in the Impala off the side of the road, watching Dean disappear into the dark wooded area beyond the 'No Trespassing' sign. The only 'protection' he'd carried with him was a handgun—just a prop which he hoped, if nothing else, would draw the attention of the Wendingo in any case. He'd promised the two that he would give it ten minutes before he started taking more affirmative action. Sam knew he most likely wouldn't need it. Dean was pretty effective at being obnoxious without the use of deadly weapons.

"I don't like this plan," Castiel said quietly, staring at the spot where Dean had disappeared. There was nothing but inky shadows now. Sam sighed.

"I don't either but…the Wendingo…it's smart. We have to make it look like nothing different. If we do this any other way, it's going to know something's up."

Castiel frowned and turn his gaze on Sam. "I know how smart Wendingos are, Sam. I have lost my Grace, not my encyclopedic knowledge of the things you and your brother hunt for a living."

Sam stumbled, a little taken aback by the snarky response. "Right. Sorry."

"It was more a commentary on my desire to make myself useful."

"You would have been the bait." A statement of fact.

"Gladly."

"Why?"

"Because I've lost my Grace but not my duty to protect the humans in my charge," Castiel answered, giving Sam a significant look that said _Yes, that does include you._

"Is that because you're supposed to or because you want to," Sam turned to stare at him. Castiel turned to stare out the window.

"I can't be sure."

"Yeah well…it doesn't seem to make a difference. Dean would have never let you. He's just as convinced as you are that protecting us is his 'duty'."

"I will convince him differently," Castiel said, quite plainly. As though it were a fact. Sam smiled, knowing that if anyone could force his brother to see reason, it was going to be Castiel.

"Good luck." And he meant it.

A twig snapped somewhere beyond the reach of the blotchy moonlight, and Dean snapped his head in that direction, as though he weren't aware a Wendingo would be careless enough to make such a racket on accident. It had been nearly a half an hour now that he'd been tromping around, making as much noise as he could make in a thus far fruitless attempt to draw the attention of the Wendingo. He counted backwards from three, and at one drew his gun and fired into the air. The gunshot split the night's stillness in two, the deafening crack echoing around barren, lonely trees.

An animalistic hiss was the only warning preceding the hit, which was not unlike the force an oncoming train would register. He fell forward and the useless prop flew from his hands, clattering to the ground several feet away. There was a loud ripping, white hot pain, and blackness.

Sam and Castiel listened to the distinctive sound of a gunshot and jumped from the car, torches in hand. They'd swung the car around to the back of the fenced off property, so that in the best case scenario they would beat Dean and the Wendingo to the farm and in the worst case scenario they would arrive just after—in a short enough time period to make sure that Dean was alright and the Wendingo hadn't disappeared again. The element of surprise and a head start was all they knew they had.

Castiel found it extremely aggravating, working at a human pace through the dense foliage and trees. He tripped often, and each time Sam hauled him to his feet with an eye roll and thinly veiled frustration. Every precious moment they wasted was a moment in which the Wendingo could flee. Or worse, inflict more bodily harm upon Dean. Sam was growing to regret his decision to support this plan more and more.

"The concept of gravity…I dislike it," Castiel grumbled as he picked himself up again.

"It doesn't seem to like you, either," Sam replied distractedly, because it was at that moment his eyes fell upon a darker form in the distance, more uniform than the trees and outcroppings of rock that they were winding through. The sharp corner of a farmhouse loomed beyond the reaches of the inky shadows, drenched in moonlight. Sam picked up the pace, stumbling through the dense undergrowth towards their objective. Castiel followed wordlessly, moving with rekindled purpose after Sam.

The trees abruptly drew back like a curtain to reveal a few sprawling acres of empty land, on which the farm sat. The barn was the dominant building, with a sloping roof and decrepit exterior. The paint was peeling, the walls were caving, and a hole had been ripped through one of the walls facing the woods. Sam approached the cavernous gape with his torch ready, but the interior was clearly visible in the full moonlight: an empty expanse of moldy hay and empty horse stalls. Sighing, he turned back to Castiel, shaking his head. Castiel was nowhere to be seen.

"Castiel?" he snapped, rather loudly, and immediately regretted it. There could be no telling where the Wendingo was at this point, though he could only hope far away with his brother in tow (and in one, unmarred piece). "Castiel!" Quieter this time, and also sharper. There came no reply, and Sam was left standing quite alone and anxious in the empty barn. Cursing, he swept around the outside of the barn towards the house, searching for a tornado shelter or basement entrance of some sort.

He found his prize nestled against the very back of the house, between the back of the barn and the farthest wall. The chains on the handle were broken and rusty, the remains thrown carelessly aside, tangled in weeds. They'd been there a long time. As quietly as he could manage, Sam lifted the wooden doors of the tornado shelter, revealing the dark pit beneath. The stairs had been caved in, probably for the convenience of the Wendingo and at the inconvenience of its captives. The shelter was deep: Sam couldn't see the bottom even in the light of the moon. And so it was with a growing sense of urgency and discomfort that he swung his legs over the edge and let himself drop, flashlight in one hand, torch in the other.

The light of his flashlight flitted quickly over the interior of the little shelter, and Sam was prepared to find the reflective glare of animalistic retinas, or the dark form of the Wendingo lurking just out of reach. It didn't take long to stumble upon the much more gruesome sight of the Wendingo's victims, strung from the support beams on the ceiling. Five of them. He took a step closer, almost afraid of the noise his boots made against the slick concrete floor. None of them stirred. Beneath the grime and caked blood, Sam saw two distinctly familiar faces—both from 'MISSNG' posters, plastered onto goldenrod paper and plastered over every reachable flat surface of the town. Not, of course, because the two missing high school students were particularly popular but more because of their parent's almost ironically strong bond with the church group. Never mind that the friends of these two particular individuals swore up and down that they were hardcore Atheists.

"Tae," Sam whispered. There came no response from the nearest hanging body. Half her face was caked in mud and dry blood, which had been leaking from somewhere just above her hairline. Her head hung in a sickly limp way against a too-thin chest. Sam couldn't tell what was makeup and what was bare, bruised skin—her thickly coated eyeliner and running mascara made it difficult, but as he sawed through the heavy ropes from which she hang, he reached out a hand to inspect her face more closely; the one movement that brought forth a reaction. Her head snapped up in a flick of terror, and she let out a most bloodcurdling scream. Sam grimaced and held his hand to her mouth, but she continued to whimper her protests against his hand. Tears welled in her eyes.

"I'm going to get you out of here," he whispered soothingly, and his knife snapped through the final rope with a snap. All of her weight fell against his large frame, but he didn't budge. Instead he laid her down on the ground against the farthest wall, where she stayed obediently while he moved for the next person. He glanced anxiously at the gaping hole from which moonlight was spilling in, but the Wendingo was nowhere to be seen and he could only hope that wherever it was, it wasn't inflicting bodily harm to either of his companions. Things had become eerily quiet, and he worked methodically, snapping the ropes of the second familiar victim quickly, his hands already reached out to catch him. His name was Brent. And it was too late. Sam listened to the still silence beneath the boys chest, and searched for a solid few minutes for a pulse. Tae was sobbing quietly in the corner.

Sam took less than five minutes to cut down the others, all of them breathing and in various levels of pain and emotional trauma. None of the others, luckily were dead aside from Brent, and it was with a certain amount of guilt and sense of failure that Sam set the body off to the side, gathering the group of forlorn looking teenagers around him.

"I need to know if any of you are seriously hurt," Sam asked quietly, four pairs of terrified wide eyes stared back at him through the partial darkness, each attached to heads shaking back and forth slowly—no. "Alright then. Here's what's going to happen. I—"

A loud thud. A quiet groan of complaint.

"I will escort them to the main road, off of the property."

Sam spun around, livid and currently trying to calm his racing heart. "Castiel!"

"I apologize for my disappearance. I was creating something of a distraction. The Wendingo will be here soon. Before we can get them all off of the property. It's attention will be momentarily diverted. The house on the other side will be its first stop," Castiel said.

"Then we need to go. Now." And it was with a false sense of purpose that he addressed the teenagers. He struggled, unsure of what exactly to tell them. He decided 'nothing' was the best viable option. "When you get back to the main road…go straight home. Say you ran away. Say that you got lost. You don't tell anyone about this…creature—"

"What _was_ it?" Tae asked, her voice cracking a little in panic.

"Don't worry about it, alright. We're going to take care of it. Castiel is going to take you as far as the main road. It won't go beyond there," Sam answered quietly.

"So…that's it? We just…lie?"

"You're going to have to. No matter how unrealistic it sounds…it's going to sound better than the truth," Sam grimaced at the idea of the four teenagers before him letting slip the truth.

"We'd better go," Castiel said urgently. So saying, he crossed to the blank wall below the door, searching for some handhold. His fingers found purchase in a few rugged divots in the wall, which he used to hoist himself laboriously up and through the double doors. Sam stood watching tensely while he turned this way and that, surveying. After a few moments of hushed stillness, they both ascertained that the Wendingo was still nowhere nearby, and it was safe. One by one the missing and now found teenagers climbed into the light of the full moon from the cramped, humid confines of the tornado shelter. Sam followed, his eyes scanning the shadowed curtain of trees for any sign of his brother.

"What are you going to do?" Castiel asked him suspiciously.

"Find Dean," Sam answered solemnly.

"Don't go after the Wendingo on your own," Castiel argued. "I'll be back shortly. The road is just out of sight. Once they're all off, I'll be back and we will hunt it together. Dean is alright, wherever he is."

"You don't know that," Sam answered, with a note of bitterness, which made Castiel hang his head and turn away. He strode quickly away, the teenagers in tow. It wasn't long before they disappeared into the dark undergrowth, and Sam was left standing alone, worried, and guilty basking in the light of a full moon, which only made the shadows appear darker.

He'd been waiting a solid ten minutes before his phone rang. Curious and alarmed at the volume of the ringer, he pulled it from his pocket and stared at the screen which read, quite clearly, DEAN in comforting bold print. The Wendingo couldn't work a cell phone. His brother had to be safe enough. Right?

"Dean?" he snapped quickly, flicking open the phone. No reply came but the heavy sound of static. Sam listened closer. The sound was just off. The sound was…dragging? "Dean!"

_"Sammy!"_ The answering voice was strained, maybe even some distance off, and muffled beneath the sound of the dragging. There was a question behind it. The need for reassurance.

"The kids are alright! They're out!" Sam yelled back, hoping that his brother could hear him. "They're fine!"

All at once, there was dead silence on the other end. The dragging stopped. The sound of the phone being fumbled. Dropped. A muffled thud and a groan of pain.

"Dean!"

The line disconnected. And it was imperative, then, that Sam know whether or not a Wendingo had the ability to comprehend common English, because if so then it was entirely possible it now knew what they'd been up to. Consequently if this was found to be true, then Dean was in serious trouble.

"Castiel!" Sam shouted in desperation, only half forgetting that of course Castiel wouldn't be magically and abruptly appearing when beckoned.


	4. Chapter 4

**It's here! The chapter that earned this story an M rating. I have never written slash. I have never thought about writing slash. But...this pairing was different for some reason. Castiel and Dean. So I do apologize if it is the stuff of a rookie.**

**Yes, I did just update two chapters in one night. Is that a no-no? It's my apology for updating so late.**

There was a well-timed and abrupt mass of racket from the wooded area immediately behind him, and he spun on his heel to face a wide-eyed, panicked looking Castiel.

"Yes?"

"You're…" 'here rather quickly for an angel without his grace' but Sam couldn't finish the sentence, there was too much going on.

"Call it good timing. Where is the Wendingo?" Castiel's eyes searched as he spoke.

"Not here yet, but…it knows what we're up to. It knows the kids are gone."

"How?"

"I was on the phone. Dean tried to call. Does it understand English?"

"It depends on how young or old it is. Over time they will forget their knowledge of their human lives, as they lose and attachment to them. There's no telling."

Sam wasn't sure what alerted him of the Wendingo's approach, as swift and silent as it was. All he was immediately aware of was the half a second of forewarning his instincts gave him, before he turned to address the supernatural being while fumbling to light his torch. By the time he processed he was being too slow, he was already on the ground, the torch a few hundred feet away and useless.

"Sam!" Dean's voice was sharp and hoarse sounding, and the pounding of footsteps against the dry ground vibrated in his ears. Too dazed to process the fact that his brother was alive and well, Sam let himself be helped into a sitting position. It was a few moments before he could collect his wits enough to be grateful for his brother's safety.

"You're alright?" he asked, examining the mercifully shallow scrapes on Dean's face and neck.

"I'm fine," Dean cracked a grin and Sammy hoisted himself to his feet, brushing off the debris. The Wendingo was advancing on Castiel, who had just managed to get the flame to his torch. He launched it somewhat inexpertly, and it arched so slowly the Wendingo glided easily out of the way with more than enough time to spare. Claws outstretched, it made for Castiel with a guttural hiss. Sam blinked and Dean was gone from his side, bounding the short distance to pull Castiel out of the way of the Windingo. Claws raked over his chest, the sound of tearing flesh was too loud in Sam's ears as he made a desperate lunge for the last torch, lighting it quickly and letting it lose with a throw that threatened to dislocate his shoulder. The Wendingo let out a shriek as the licking flames flared up over its skin, engulfing it. Castiel stood frozen, and Sam's eyes flicked first from him to his brother, who was now glaring at the ball of flames with distaste and a grimace of pain.

Dean dragged in ragged, shallow breath after ragged, shallow breath. Sick smelling smoke billowed from the withered remains of the Wendingo Sam was crouched over, making sure the fire didn't get out of control in the carpet of dry foliage.

"Hate those bastards," he huffed with some amount of finality and a grasping attempt to maintain his bravado. It had been quiet for a long time. Sam took a step away from the fire, letting his shirt drop from his mouth. He sucked in a greedy lungful of air and jogged to his brother's side, concern etched in every line of his face. Dean groaned at the expression, and the accompanying mother-hen voice as he fired off question after question on the blood trickling from between Dean's fingers as he clutched at his side. Dean noted the limp in his left leg and took a mental note to ask him about it once he was done panicking. Sam was still talking, firing questions at his unresponsive brother. Sam, in his impatience, pried Dean's arm away from some force, ignoring the right hand that swatted at him only half-heartedly. Dean's eyes were locked on Castiel, who was staring horrified at Dean and looked like more of a statuesque tribute to the working middle class than a generally competent, living angel. Sam sighed because of course it would be dark out, and Dean's torn, ratty shirt would be clinging to him. His chest was nothing in this light but a patch of dark liquid on even darker fabric. The fire cast more shadows than light now, and it made them dance in a nightmarish, disjointed quiver.

"Cas?" Dean tried. He didn't even blink. His eyes were locked on the blood. "Cas!" It was an order this time: Castiel flicked his gaze instinctively upwards and locked eyes with Dean. "Are you hurt?"

"No," Castiel answered robotically, and moved to Dean's side—noting internally the painfully long amount of time it took him to get there. Castiel's eyes moved to the fire—the grotesque body parts wasting away in flame. Claws…he saw the claws.

"Cas, look at me." The authority behind his voice rendered Castiel nothing but completely obedient. He held Dean's gaze this time and Dean saw (much to his horror) the guilt, the fear, and the panic behind the blue oceans of careful nonchalance and focus. "Cas. Dude. I'm fine. I swear."

"Dean…" Sam tried not to sound as though he were too heavily disputing that fact, but the look his brother threw him was absolutely venomous and he fell immediately silent.

"We should get back to the motel," Dean said definitively. With Sam's obedient silence and Castiel's angelic case of shock, Dean knew he would be the only one making the decisions. If it were up to the other two, the three of them might have stood there all night. Sam held his hand out for the keys. Dean considered it for a half a second before deciding that he needed Sam on his side if he was going to quell the fears and concerns of his worrisome and now catatonic angel.

"Bitch," he snapped dejectedly, and handed him the keys.

"Jerk," Sam replied, with a hollow tone of submission because now he knew what his brother was asking of him and he knew nothing better to do to fix the situation. The unwelcome concern for his brother's wellbeing would have to be put aside.

Once back at the car, Dean deposited himself unceremoniously in the front seat with a hardly concealed grunt of pain and sulking expression. Castiel slipped silently into the backseat, staring straight ahead. A tense sort of silence came over the interior of the Impala—the only sounds heard over the authoritative growling of the engine were the quiet, throaty lyrics of Metallica, which Sam had turned down to a notch above mute (much to Dean's frustration).

"Would everybody just chill out?" Dean snapped after ten minutes of absolutely silence. "I'm fine. Everyone's fine. Nothing freakin' happened."

"Please do not insist that you're fine, Dean. For the sake of my sanity," Castiel answered quietly. Dean couldn't see the expression on his face, but as Sam glanced back in the rearview mirror he witnessed a most horrifying look of self-loathing and guilt upon the angel's features, the likes of which he'd never seen before. He averted his eyes quickly, feeling as though he'd intruded somehow upon some personal moment.

"Cas, that's crap and you know it," Dean argued, angrier now. "Do I look like I'm dying?"

Sam pursed his lips, glancing over at his brother and trying very hard not to make a comment, sarcastic or otherwise. The truth was, with mud caked in his hair, dirt and foliage clinging to his jacket, and his face as sweaty and pale as it was, he didn't look as fantastic as he always thought he did. The appearance of the gaudy neon motel sign on the near horizon saved him, and he let out an audible sigh of relief as they pulled around the side into the darker, more desolate corners of the motel. They'd learned that no matter how many sketchy individuals might appear to be residing in a motel like the ones they stayed at, it would still attract a good amount of attention if they were to parade around the corridors after a hunt in the condition the two Winchesters often returned in—bruised, broken, and more often than not bloody. Even standing under the sickly yellow light of a single naked outdoor fluorescent that shed a patch of light on their door Dean didn't look well at all. Sam watched him as he giggled the keys in the door handle, wrestling with the rusted tumblers. Castiel stood behind him, impatient, and growing increasingly frustrated with himself. Sam was sure that if he could just get Dean patched up the angel would cease his worrying long enough for Dean to talk him out of his current manic depressive state. Sam, in his frustration, found himself almost missing the unemotional Castiel. Guilt overtook the feeling almost immediately.

Finally the lock sprang open and they stumbled inside, Sam fumbling for the duffle bags which would contain the first aid kits. The lights flickered on, throwing more dim shadows than light in the cramped, cheaply dressed motel room. Somewhere out of sight, Chandler let out a long, soft meow, as though to alert them all that he had, in fact, not disappeared and was quite starving for attention. Castiel, feeling useless as he watched Dean strip down his top half and Sam dig through the first aid kit, grabbed his cell phone from the counter and dialed Bobby's number from his contacts list. He picked up on the first ring.

"Castiel?" Bobby sounded immediately concerned. "How'd it go?"

"We have eliminated the Wendingo," Castiel answered in the same robotic tone he'd used earlier. Sam stared at Dean, wondering if his brother was noticing the same thing. He sounded much more like his old self that way.

"Is everyone alright?" Bobby asked, sounding irritated at the definitive lack of details.

Castiel considered that for a long moment, giving Dean a sideways glance. Would he be mad if he told Bobby?

"Which one?" Too late. Bobby had guessed. His tone was thick with worry. "Out with it boy!"

"Dean," Castiel answered shortly, fearing retaliation from the hunter in question who was now patched up and capable of his usual full range of motion. Sam was still trying to apply antiseptic to a few more minor gashes in his shoulder.

"I'm fine!" he snapped, loud enough for Bobby to hear. His sudden jerking movement caused Sam to drop the bottle and cotton in his hands, and he swung for Dean on instinct, nailing him in the back of the head.

"Ow! Bitch!"

"Jerk!"

"Idjits."

Castiel managed a smile, though the expression didn't touch his eyes. He realized Bobby wouldn't see that an immediately faltered.

"Just make sure they take care of themselves. It sounds like the damn thing left his personality intact. Shame," Bobby grumbled irritably.

"I'll take care of them," Castiel answered solemnly. On the other end of the line, Bobby stared at the phone, startled by the sudden sincerity. He knew better than to ask what had happened and it was likely that he didn't want to know, so he let it be.

"I'll talk to you later then, boys."

Castiel disconnected without a parting 'goodbye', having learned most of his phone etiquette (or apparent lack thereof) from the oldest Winchester. Sam put away the first aid kit, fishing his wallet out of the duffel bag and making for the door, pausing to swipe Chandler from his box as he went.

"I'm going to go," he said rather abruptly. There was an awkward pause. Expected elaboration. Or at least, a feigned desire for it.

"Out."

Another pause.

"For food. And stuff. Pet store. I'll be back. In like…an hour. Or two. I'm…gonna go." With that he backed out of the door with an awkward parting expression that read _'I-am-not-sly-at-all-and-I-know-it'._ Dean cleared his throat when the door shut with a muffled click, more or less thoroughly embarrassed. He busied himself with throwing the tattered remains of his shirt in the waste bin.

"Aren't you concerned someone will see that and think—"

"That supernatural beings are in town, attacking local supernatural hunters? Doubt it," Dean laughed quietly, then smiled his usual devilish smile. "The worst thing they're going to think is some super kinky cheap motel sex went down." Castiel blushed at the implications behind that, but couldn't help but be intrigued.

"I wish to apologize," he said suddenly, and killed the almost peaceful mood, permeated only by the intangible buzz of constant sexual tension.

"For?"

"My behavior earlier was uncalled for. I did not mean to make you feel bad for saving me and am actually quite grateful to you for it."

"Then why the melodramatics?" Dean asked, genuinely curious and _so_ damn sure he didn't want to know the answer.

"Because. The bond that I share with you connects angels to humans and with the loss of my Grace I wasn't sure what would become of that…connection. As an angel it was my duty to protect you, from the moment I raised you from perdition. But now it seems as though you've changed the roles on me, and…it means I am completely useless. My purpose has been expired now—"

"Cas, can I be honest with you?"

"Of course, Dean."

Dean knew with every fiber of his being that he meant it, and so he continued. "I didn't want someone to look after me. I never did. The concern and the being there…was nice. But I don't want you to stick around just for that. The bond that we have…screw your job. Your duty or whatever. You're…you're human now, Cas. And I want to know what that connection means to you now."

"I cannot be sure," he answered. "I know that what I feel for you is something that is, unmistakably against the rules of my general existence. It should feel wrong but…it doesn't."

"You like me, Cas?" Dean couldn't force himself to say the other word.

"I love you, Dean," Castiel corrected solemnly.

"I love you too, Cas," Dean's voice broke on the last word, not because he was crying, not because he was yelling…because he was feeling something. Something that he so needed to feel, and hadn't been able to for a very long time out of sheer fear and, admittedly, the absence of something as perfect as what he had now. And if that fact was ever brought up again, the concept of his ability to feel something beyond infatuation, he would start throwing punches.

"I don't know what to do about it." Of course Castiel was referring to the complexities of their situations—the 'why's and the 'wherefore's and the 'how's—none of which came to Dean's mind at that very minute, because Dean knew where he stood now and what he wanted most at that very moment. There was only really one question he wanted to ask and there were only a few layers of clothing standing in his way, physically speaking.

"I do," he answered, and took a step forward to close the distance between Castiel and himself. "Can I kiss you?" If the answer was going to be 'No'—and Dean half expected it might be—Castiel was going to have to answer quickly: Dean already had a hold of his tie and was closing in.

For answer, Castiel tipped his head back and parted his lips. Dean decided this head tilt was even sexier than the usual sideways head tilt and his new favorite as he leaned down to capture Castiel's lips in his own. The kiss was slow, drawn out, and gentle. Dean traced the inside of Castiel's pouting upper lip with his tongue until Castiel groaned straight into his mouth. Their breathing became raked an uneven while Dean backed Castiel across the room until the back of his knees hit the edge of the bed and he fell backwards, Dean still on top of him. Castiel's trench coat had caught underneath his legs, and Dean rolled him over so that Castiel was straddling him, lips still hunting furiously along Dean's as he worked off first his coat, then his shirt and then that damned tie that Castiel always fidgeted with, which Dean now grabbed to pull Castiel closer to him.

For an allegedly 'pure' angel of the Lord, Castiel was awfully efficient at removing Dean's clothing. Dean's shirt disappeared within moments, and Castiel realized somewhere in the back of his mind that he would have to remember to buy him a new one—a casualty of the passionately aggressive new drive Castiel was feeling. Feeling. The word turned over and over in his mind, just as it had Dean's. He had no right to feel any of this—the desire that had long since been burning in the back of his brain, festering there beneath the cool confines of his own controlled thoughts and angelic demeanor. Now, it was all so real and he couldn't get enough. The part of his brain that was remaining stubbornly attached to the concepts of heaven and of right and wrong told him that this must be wrong. Every detail of it. But it was too perfect. He couldn't allow himself to think anything outside the idea that the feeling of Dean's skin against his was as it should be.

One long, soul-destroying kiss later the two were entangled, completely unclothed in the sheets, hips thrusting and grinding against one another. Castiel paused, wondering about something before he slid his hand experimentally towards the scar on Dean's shoulder. His fingertips brushed over the smooth outlines and Dean let out a barely concealed gasp, arching up into Castiel. Castiel let out a whimper of pleasure and grabbed Dean with his other hand, running his hands over the shaft of him. Dean groaned and rolled them over so that he was on top, turning Castiel over. He grabbed a suddenly submissive Castiel tenderly in one hand, listening to the wonderful sounds Castiel was making, so hard that it hurt. With an almost impatient thrust, he slid inside of Castiel, who let out a cry of pleasure and pain. Dean started slowly, dragging himself in and out while pumping Castiel with one hand. His other hand had Castiel by the shoulder, but Castiel needed no guidance as he thrust into Dean, letting out passionate cries that made Dean quiver with anticipation for the oncoming orgasm. It started from his very core, shaking him. He finished in an explosion of relief and ecstasy, turning Castiel back over at once so that he could finish him off. He slid his lips down Castiel's body, kissing every pale, strong plane of the angel's chest and abs. Castiel ran his hand though Dean's tousled blonde hair, relishing the soft texture. His eyes locked on Dean before he went down on him, sliding a hand down the shaft and brushing the tip with his tongue. Castiel gasped, his muscled tensed and his toes started to curl with the sensation, before Dean slid all of Castiel into his mouth, sliding in and out. It didn't take very long for Castiel to finish hard in his mouth. Dean swallowed and slid slowly upwards, relishing the last remaining taste of Castiel as he leaned over him, kissing back up his body towards his neck. Castiel lay panting on his back, staring at Dean with a moved sort of passion. Their lips met again this time, and stayed that way for a long time before Castiel drifted into peaceful, deep sleep. Dean smiled, watching the angel while he ran his hands through the dark, disheveled locks. He was drifting between sleep and awake when he heard his phone buzz obnoxiously against the surface of the end table. He rolled his eyes and groped for it with his left hand, keeping his right curled around Castiel, who was sleeping against his chest. The outside screen said he had a text from Sam, and he knew better than to ignore it.

**Do I want to even come home tonight?**

Dean smirked at the message, typed out his reply, and closed the phone with a snap. He hit the exterior power button and all but threw it back onto the table, leaning in to rest his chin on the top of Castiel's head and drifted into his first peaceful sleep in a long time.

Sam shivered against the breeze, standing on the porch to their hotel room, waiting for a reply from Dean. He'd given him a fair warning, the least he could do was try to hurry up and let him in. Sam had assumed perhaps they'd need time to clean up, but when he heard no sounds of stirring behind the locked motel door, he'd started to grow agitated. His phone finally buzzed, and when he flipped it open, he almost swore out loud at the reply.

**Dude, you're SO sleeping in the Impala tonight.**

"That's the thanks I get? Awesome, Dean. Good talk. Thanks." Defeated, Sam, stalked off to the Impala. No amount of sad puppy dog eyes would get him where he wanted to be this time. Inside the heated hotel room, in a bed completely void of sex-smell and unclothed angels. As though protesting the abandonment of the hotel room idea, Chandler let out a loud meow from his coat pocket, poking his tiny head out to stare almost longingly at the motel door. "I know, dude."


	5. Chapter 5

**The following chapter is more or less where I imagined this story ending, but I'm having a lot of fun with it. The concept of Castiel adjusting to humanity is a thrilling little possibility to mess with. So much so that I might continue...but that depends on a number of factors, one of which being...LET ME KNOW WHETHER OR NOT YOU GUYS EVEN WANT ME TO. Hi. :) That wasn't me shouting. Capslock is just a very effective way of getting your attention.**

**Message me, Review a chapter, anything. And if you have any requests on what you want to see with this (including 'Jesus, you suck, step away from the keyboard and metaphorical pen/paper and never write again.') While I may not take that last suggestion completely to heart, any suggestions/critiques/commentary will be mulled over and taken into consideration.**

**I just updated three chapters in one day. Look what Spring Break does to us eccentric writer folk. If the mediocre, hardly-spring weather continues I might just have ten chapters by Friday.**

**Rambling again. My apologies.**

Chapter 3: He Can't Do His Magical Poofing Anymore, And Yet...

Sunlight filtering in through heavy curtains was slowly baking Dean's skin, basking it in a glorious post-dawn warmth that kept away the usual drafty chill of a cheap motel room. His arm was flung casually across the bed, curled around something soft and strangely cool. He curled inward, drawing the soft alien object closer towards him, somewhere a the back of his mind registering that it had to be Castiel, but the feeling was all wrong. The fabric was too giving under his touch, the coolness too unfeeling. He frowned, opening his eyes.

"Cas?" his voice was rough and throaty after hours of much needed and decent sleep. His eyes fluttered open, taking a moment to focus properly. His arm was curled around one of the hotel pillows—he shoved it away, groaning a little. "Cas?" There came no reply. He rubbed a hand over his face, wearily and now somewhat more frustrated. Guy doesn't even have his magic poofing powers and he still freakin' disappears on me, he thought, somewhat dejectedly. The impending feelings of abandonment hit him crashing into a wave of morning-after, apocalyptic-size case of post mortem. Sighing, he scanned the room for his clothes and found them instead folded (somewhat inexpertly) at the foot of his bed.

Somewhat less concerned with the whereabouts of his angel, and feeling much less negative about the nature of his hopefully temporary departure, Dean rolled out of bed for the shower, flexing each pleasantly sore muscle. He let the hot water roll off every inch of his aching body, shivering underneath the warm, steady drumming on his back. When the water ran down his chest he began to feel the nauseating tenderness of his newest battle scars. Bracing himself for the coming on slaughter of misery, he sucked in one deep breath and turned to face the showerhead.

He was just pulling on his jeans when he heard it: a few loud taps on the door, oddly hesitant. He tugged the belt around his jeans and rushed for the door, his thoughts immediately floating towards Castiel. When he peered through the peephole and saw his geek brother's face instead of Castiel's, however, he let out a groan and pulled open the door. Neither of them moved. Sam stood on the doorstep looking painfully awkward and Dean leaned against the door frame trying to look smooth and composed instead of dramatically disappointed.

"Hey, Sammy," Dean said, moving aside finally to let his brother in. Sam edged past him nervously, his eyes scanning the room with an anxious air of expectancy. He was waiting for the awkward sight of an after-sexed Castiel. He was even waiting for the lack of clothing which is brother was now sporting. He was, however, far from prepared for it, which is why it was with a heavy sigh of relief that he realized that Castiel was nowhere to be seen. It had been awkward enough when he'd caught Dean in his post-sex state of glee with a girl—a random bar hopper neither of them knew. The idea of stumbling upon this aftershock was an entirely different beast, the likes of which Sam could not be expected to adjust to immediately. He didn't think he would be able to look their companion in the eyes for a while after this as it stood.

"Thanks for kicking me out last night, jerk," Sammy tried, his voice still tense and awkward. He forced a smile as he set down the cat with a bowl of food on the table. Dean eyed it suspiciously before answering.

"No problem, bitch. Any time," Dean flashed him a sincere smile and a look that said Really. Any time. As in this will happen again. "Speaking of which. You were in the parking lot. You see the feathery bastard this morning?" Sam shrugged.

"I was asleep in the Impala. Only fell asleep a while ago. It gets freakin' cold at night," and he didn't bother to curb the undeniably resentful tone in his voice.

Dean's noncommittal grunt of a response was far from encouraging as Sam watched him start to pace. "Dude, look, I'm sure he's fine." There was a pause, in which Dean might have regularly considered arguing or at the very least acknowledging Sam's statement. No such reply was made. "Are you alright?" Dean reacted to this, pulling his eyes from the obnoxious pattern on the carpet to glare at him. His head snapped around the moment the knock at the door sounded. Sam raised his eyebrows as Dean nearly sprinted for the door, pulling it open to admit a very placid-looking Castiel, who was gripping a paper bag in one hand.

"I brought you both breakfast," Castiel addressed the two of them with an almost inhuman amount of tact, holding out the bag with an innocently blank look. And if Dean thought he could have kissed him then, it was with every shred of self-control he had that he minded his manners when he pulled from the bag a bacon cheeseburger. It was all he could do not to explode in what he promised himself were very manly affections. Sam was aware of his brother's thinly veiled yearnings and quietly excused himself from the room, grabbing his breakfast burrito and throwing a half-assed excuse about a phone call over his shoulder. He was at the door before he doubled back for Chandler, who he'd left on the table, staring imploringly at the three men before it and pining for attention by way of soft meows. Dean had been pointedly ignoring them.

"I feel bad for inconveniencing Sam—"

Dean didn't feel as bad. He was absolutely sure with the way he'd been feeling lately that he was going to die a thirteen year old girl, and at that moment he didn't care because the feeling of Castiel's lips against him was far too enjoyable. They stood like that for a long time—Dean's hands on the small of Castiel's back, Castiel's fingers running through Dean's short hair. They broke apart when Dean finally decided that yes, he definitely did still require regular amounts of oxygen and it would probably worry Castiel if he passed out from deprivation.

"How is your chest?" Castiel asked kindly, taking note of the fact that Dean hadn't bothered with a shirt after his shower, partially because his attention had been diverted elsewhere, and partially because the thought of fabric pulling over the bandages and tender cuts made Dean nauseous.

"It didn't seem to bug me last night," Dean flashed him a devilish smile. Castiel smirked in response, kissed him again swiftly, and watched as Dean moved around the bed to the side dresser and pulled a button-up shirt from the depths of one of the drawers, pulling it over his broad shoulders. Castiel noticed the way he held the front away from him, carefully minding his chest.

Sam knocked and entered, and Dean didn't miss the way he had his eyes closed at first, slowly peeling them open upon entering.

"I talked to Bobby," he said, shoving his cell phone back in his pocket. "We're going there for a few days to recuperate and then he says he might have a hunt out there we could look into."

"Recuperate?" Dean's brow furrowed in confusion. Sam and Castiel could almost hear the audible click of the gears working. "Hey. Whoa. No."

"And he said he'd take the cat," Sam added, his eyes sliding over to a very disappointed looking Castiel. In fact, if he didn't know better, he'd almost think that Castiel was…pouting.

"Cas?" Dean asked quietly, quirking his eyebrows. "It's better Bobby has the demon cat. The guy's got devil's traps and holy water all over the place."

And Sam's patience had taken enough abuse. "Dean, there is nothing supernatural about that cat! Leave it alone!"


	6. Chapter 6

**So a few of you reader's decided to tell me that I should update and continue this. So I complied. Because I'm a sucker for these sorts of things and because I left it at a place where continuing wouldn't completely impractical. I thought it would be on a bit of hiatus for a while, because I've been working on my other multi-chapter piece We Do What We Must. But this is fluffier, and I can't resist writing some good Destiel fluff, and reflecting on its effects on outside characters. This chapter is less direct touchy feely and more implied.**

**Let me know if I should stop. I'll find a comfortable place on my own eventually regardless, this isn't the undead piece of literature it might now appear to be. But if you get tired of it, or it feels like it's dragging on, let me know.**

**Also, there's been a request for a shower seen with Dean and Castiel, and that will be featured in the next chapter. I don't feel as though the entire thing should be rated M, but that bit will be. I'll put a warning there too, but just for safe measure this is going here as wel.**

**Thanks again, so much you guys! It means a lot to me!**

If there was one thing (thing here meaning inanimate object—not of course counting the angel Castiel) Dean Winchester was more than willing to throw his pride away for, it had to be the Impala. So when Sam insinuated that he would be the one driving to Bobby's, Dean was not above throwing a tantrum over the ordeal. Enough of a tantrum to persuade Sam to hand him the keys, if only for the sake of Dean's heart health.

"Jeez, don't burst anything, here," he sighed, smiling a little and handing Dean the keys which he snatched with an almost overprotective sense of urgency. Never the less, Sam found himself somewhat comforted by the fact that Dean was apparently feeling well enough to dispute with him over the Impala. So he took his place in the passenger's seat with grace, giving Castiel one of those 'what are you going to do?' looks. These looks had been the primary basis for his comradeship with Castiel. He could deal with Castiel's favoritism if it meant that he had an ally for times such as these.

Winning by forfeit did nothing to discourage the triumphant flare to Dean's motions as he patted the dashboard of his first baby, stroking across the smooth surface in a way that made Sam think if the car had been a girl it would have smacked him. Dean punched the power button to the radio and peeled out of the parking lot, tearing onto the busy street with a sense of purpose.

"Blue Oyster Cult?" Castiel tilted his head as the chorus of 'Burning for You' started blaring through the speakers.

"Very good," Dean flashed him a smile, glancing in the rearview mirror. Castiel's blue eyes were all that was there, and he grinned a little at the thought of Dean's approval.

They played the playlist game the rest of the way, and Castiel could name almost everything except for Nazareth and Asia. Some of the songs threw him—ACDC's Highway to Hell in particular. And so it was that Dean went on to explain and defend the ironic qualities in such music, which made Sam roll his eyes but smile fondly. When the junkyard finally came into view, Dean and Sam were bickering good-naturedly about music, and Dean's aversion to trying anything new. Bobby met them on the porch, watching Dean move stiffly across the gravel towards the house with Castiel at his side and Sam lumbering further ahead.

"What's wrong with the idjit now?" Bobby asked, frowning with disapproval. Sam sighed.

"Wendingo. It was his idea," Sam answered. "Thought we'd swing by and figure out our next move from here."

"Stay as long as you like, kid," Bobby smiled at him, giving him a hug.

"Thanks, Bobby. And…there's something else," Sam shifted awkwardly, unsure of how Bobby would take to Dean and Castiel's newfound relationship.

"What is it?"

"Just watch," Sam hissed quietly, moving inside the house just as Dean and Castiel came up the steps for the house.

"You alright, boy?" Bobby asked Dean as he moved aside to admit the other two. Dean grunted an affirmation and flopped down into one of the chairs in the study with a groan. Bobby crossed into the fridge and pulled out four beers. He was only half watching for the usual demon aversion to Holy water. When Dean and Sam chugged half of them down in a few gulps, and Castiel took a safe, almost polite swallow of his, Bobby relaxed minutely.

"So what happened?"

Sam didn't hesitate. "Well. Dean took his usual 'devil may care' approach. And, as usual, it didn't go well." Dean threw him a venomous glare, ready for Bobby to lay into him.

"Kid, you better watch yourself," he started. "This self-sacrificing bull has to stop: I don't care for what reason—" Dean opened his mouth to protest. "No! I don't care. Damn it, Dean, I thought we'd been over this!"

"Whoa, Bobby. Calm down!...You're gonna make me blush," Dean smirked.

Which made Bobby turn first red, then purple, and then all sorts of other colors Sam didn't think were particularly healthy. He put his face in his hands and took another long swig of his beer.

"I'm going to go take a shower," Sam said quietly, slamming his beer down on the table and shoving past his brother. Bobby's glare didn't let up: he kept it train on the eldest Winchester even as Sam thudded up the stairs.

"Take off your shirt," Bobby snapped at Dean.

"Why, Bobby. I'm sorry but I'm taken," Dean feigned the pitying tone perfectly, which only earned him another glare and a throat-clearing.

"Don't flatter yourself," Bobby told him.

"Please remove your shirt?" Castiel asked with a smug smile. Dean's will faltered. His desire to come back with a witty retort failed him, and he obediently removed his T-shirt, tossing it to the side. Castiel caught it deftly in one hand, doing his best to fold it like he'd watched Dean and Sam do so often.

"Come on. You can tell me what this is all about while I'm stitching you up," Bobby indicated to the two of them on the word 'this'.

"I didn't figure you one for gossip, Bobby. Maybe we can braid each other's hair afterwards," Dean flashed him another smile.

"Keep pushing it. See what happens when I got a needle in my hand."

"In all seriousness I swear it isn't that bad," Dean asked. "Not to knock your seamstress skills because I'm sure you're an excellent housewife and all that. Crowley has to really appreciate—"

"Dean."

"Alright. I'm done."

* * *

><p><strong>A lesson for Dean: Bobby is not stupid. You're not fooling anyone. :) I feel like he needed to learn this lesson. And yes, a reference to Crowley <em>was<em> completely necessary.**


	7. Chapter 7

**Cease fire! I'm so sorry for the delayed chapter update. I got grounded, which led to a bout of writer's block, graduation coming up, job hunting, Senior Ball, parties, and a bunch of other things that aren't at all productive in term of writing. So I apologize. Most of it was my fault. Except for the grounding. Which was warranted, however unnecessary.**

**Oh and, after I got back in the mood, my computer decided to crash just as my mouse was hovering over the 'save' button, halfway through a good solid chapter.**

**HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.**

**Freakin' Friday the 13****th****.**

**So here it is.**

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**Once again, they're never going to give me Supernatural. I ASKED NICELY.**

Chapter 4: Like a Teaspoon

Bobby had sent Sam (mercifully) to the store for beer, leaving him alone with Castiel and a squirming Dean, who was doing his best to inadvertently make Bobby's efforts more difficult.

"Quit squirming," Bobby snapped for the fifth time. Castiel sat watching with a curious head-tilt and furrowed brow. He always got this look when watching either of the boys perform patch jobs. And because Bobby was never one to beat around the bush, nor was he by any means ignorant to the constant sexual tension between the two which had somehow multiplied since their last visit, he felt no need to delay it any longer. "Now what's going on between the two of you?"

"Do you mean in regards to our…hunting or personal relations?" Castiel asked. Bobby regarded Castiel's robotic answer with a note of frustration.

"The second one."

Castiel struggled.

"It's just a thing…" Dean muttered tactlessly.

It was at that moment Castiel did something so heartbreakingly human Bobby could only read it as the physical manifestation of some earthshattering internal reaction. Castiel, the statue, flinched. His eyes flicked downwards, to his hands, and he quietly stood from the chair he'd been sitting in and strode from the room without a word. A moment after he disappeared they heard the front door open and close softly. Maybe it was Dean's imagination but to him Bobby took unnecessary force in pulling the string tight. He yelped out loud, covering it with a much more masculine cough.

"Jeez, Bobby," he grimaced.

"Boy, you are some kind of idjit," Bobby snarled.

"What?"

"I know you aren't any kind of innocent boy. And you call what you have with all those bartending bimbos 'things'. And if I know anything about what this is with you and him, I know it ain't one of those."

"Are you seriously trying to give us relationship advice?"

"You need it, far as I can tell," Bobby retorted gruffly. "All I'm saying is, you ought to give it a little more credit. A little humility, respect, anything but what you're giving it now. I know it's gonna be hard. Your emotional depth is shallower than a flippin' teaspoon."

Dean raised his eyebrows but said nothing. He could understand—sort of. More in a one-dimensional and typical lost male 'I screwed up' kind of way. "I owe him an apology."

"Well that _almost_ didn't sound like a question."

Dean sighed, grimacing at the tender ache in his chest, and stood up. He pulled his flannel shirt over his arms and gingerly did up the buttons, holding the fabric out and away from his chest. Bobby scoffed. "Pansy."

The front door opened and closed with a quiet click of the tumblers, and Dean turned on the spot. It was Sam this time. His disappointed reaction was visible, but Sam had already guessed what had happened.

"So, anyone want to tell me why Castiel is sitting on the hood of a Pinto, staring at the sky?" and he was staring at Dean's. The benefit he'd given him by not speaking directly at him was lost.

"I'm going, I'm going," Dean snapped, answering Bobby's pointed glare. "Jeez, it was hard enough when I only had to deal with my pansy ass brother." Sam watched him go, looking hurt.

"I didn't even say anything that time!"

The door slammed close with a bang that echoed through the house.

Dean found Castiel perched on the hood of a must-have-once-been-red pinto with peeling, rusty paint. The windshield was smashed in, and shards of glass were scattered across the hood. Castiel's hand was resting without his noticing on a particularly large shard of glass—blood was running from beneath his fingers. Dean made no secret of his entrance, but Castiel either didn't care or pretended not to, because not only did he go about completely ignoring Dean—he took a special interest in the right headlight, which was now just a tangled mass of wires.

"It's not going to burst into song, Cas," Dean said softly. Castiel sighed visibly, his shoulder's heaving. He turned to Dean, his eyes wary and sad. The expression alone nearly broke Dean's heart.

"I'm sorry that I…misinterpreted our relationship, Dean," Castiel said automatically, and Dean felt such a tingle of girlish excitement at the word 'relationship' that his more masculine instincts were searching for a bottle of brandy to drink from for compensation.

"Cas, you didn't I was just…an idiot," Dean ran a hand through his short hair and moved to sit down next to Cas on the hood of the Pinto, sliding a few shards of glass out of the way. The scene before them wasn't exactly romantic or touching—all he could see for days were piles of grotesquely twisted and wasted metal. "I think Bobby may be a little angrier with me when he finds out I made you break the car."

"It was this or the Impala," Castiel's eyes slid almost guiltily to the shining black tribute to 60's muscle cars. Dean couldn't help but silently thank his brother for his atrocious habits of making them walk obscene distances from the lot to the house, instead of parking closer as Dean tended to do.

"I appreciate that then," Dean smirked. "But I could have fixed the car."

Cas didn't answer.

"Cas, I was wrong to say that it was just a 'thing'…I wasn't thinking, in all honesty," Dean assured him, his voice low. He stumbled over the words through the dark, unexplored territory that was a genuine apology.

"What are we then, if not a 'thing'? I feel very lost, Dean."

"That's not your fault, that's uh…that's mine," Dean pursed his lips, trying to find the right words. "I guess I took for granted this whole 'profound bond' thing. Like you'd be able to tell without me saying it."

"Saying what, Dean?"

Which Dean answered with cowardly and inspirational silence.

"Dean." In Castiel's voice rang a note of desperation. He _needed_ the answer, and he needed it then and there. It took all of Dean's will and courage to turn to Castiel, lock his gaze, and said quite evenly:

"Cas, I love you. And you know that. But I want us to be more than just…friends."

"Oh," Castiel's voice was aggravatingly unemotional and as always difficult to interpret. Dean had grown accustomed to only being able to assess his mood through his extensive vocabulary rather than inflection. One word answers didn't much help him in that process.

"Cas? I need something more than that, man. You're killin' me here," Dean tried to smile, really he did, but he bared his teeth in more of a grimace than anything else.

"I thought we already were."

Which made Dean laugh out loud and lean forward to kiss Castiel hard on the lips.

Castiel and Dean tried very hard to act as though nothing had changed when they returned. Sam and Bobby barely glanced up when they came through the door—for the sake of their companions' sanity the two neglected to do anything specifically affectionate besides standing within close proximity to each other, but one could easily chalk that up to Castiel's strange affinity for invading personal space unintentionally. When they went up the stairs together and the spare bedroom door clicked closed, Sam humored himself with pretending that they Castiel definitely just needed to change, and the hot water that was running was just Dean taking a perfectly innocent and solitary shower. When Bobby muttered a curse and fled for the lot to work on cars, Sam buried his face in his hands and could only be thankful that they were at least attempting to be discreet—however much they were failing currently.


End file.
